


The Heart That Loveth Me (Every Joyous Word)

by harborshore



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Camelot - Lerner/Loewe, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 11:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/pseuds/harborshore
Summary: Four ways it didn’t end in tragedy.





	The Heart That Loveth Me (Every Joyous Word)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oliviacirce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacirce/gifts).



> NOTE: If this hadn’t been a pinch hit, it would’ve been a million words long. We share an OT3. The title is from this poem, and from the musical, of course.

1\. 

The war to end all wars, they said. Arthur came back to Australia to find his girl with someone else, and she’d inherited money, so she’d become an entirely new person, or so it seemed to Arthur. The police force seemed the best option, but now, trying to untangle the worst murder case the city has seen in years, he’s not so sure. Forgetting about your troubles is much harder when your job is nothing but trouble with no relief.

“Oh, Arthur.” 

He looks up. Gwennie is in the doorway, stylish hat cocked to the left, red lipstick that she never used to wear, but the same gaze, still. 

“Hello, Gwen,” he says, tone as level as he can make it.

“That’s the file for the killings at the docks, isn’t it?” she says, eyes turning sharp.

“Yes,” he says warily. 

“Lance, come in,” she calls behind her. Arthur winces. 

“I’m a bit busy,” he points out.

“Hello,” Lance says, ducking through the doorway. He’s unfairly tall, and vibrant in a way that Arthur likes, that feels just like the soldiers he used to be unable to look away from, everything be damned.

“Arthur’s working on the killings at the docks,” she says.

“Oh,” Lance says, and looks at Gwennie, then over at Arthur. “The newspapers have been saying it’s a conspiracy.”

Arthur shrugs. “I can’t really tell you much about it,” he says. 

“I did army intelligence in the war,” Lance says, which is news to Arthur. All he knew about Lance before today was that he was an engineer at some sort and that he hadn’t been at the Front. 

“And I did codebreaking,” Gwennie says quietly, which, that’s. Also news. “Didn’t they find a strange message at the scene?“ They did. A typed sheet of garbled words, and unfortunately the first person on the scene had scribbled it down and given it to the newspapers, which led to less-than-helpful headlines about mysterious ciphers, a thousand or so letters with tips, and no helpful leads. Thus far the finest minds of the police haven’t been able to make head or tails of the cipher itself, either.

“You were always too clever for your own good,” he says. He never could say no to her, and she nods at Lance, who pulls up a chair and sits next to Arthur to look at the blueprints with him, while she perches on the desk, pencil in one hand, scribbling down alternatives to the cipher. 

At the end of the night, Gwennie has narrowed down the likely list of cipher candidates to four, and Lancelot and him have unearthed three ways Arthur could keep pursuing this. He tells them thank you, very awkwardly.

“We did always run well together,” she says. 

There’s nothing Arthur can say to that, and he doesn’t understand the glances between them.

Lance clears his throat. “Why don’t you come over, Friday? Drinks and a bite to eat. Our butler serves a mean spread.”

Somehow Arthur doesn’t demur, and his empty office still smells faintly of her perfume after they go.

 

2.

“I thought necromancy was bad,” Ron says nervously.

Hermione just looks at him, and doesn’t say, “the ends justify the means,” because she’s told him that before. Besides, she’s not sure they’re not a legend, Arthur and Lancelot, so nothing might come of it at all. But it is worth trying, because they’re not winning.

Harry doesn’t say anything either. He’s been growing evermore grim, and she’s worried.

The ritual is simple. The tent begins to grow dim and grey straight away, just like the three books she consulted all said. Mrs Pigglywinkle (her author picture was deceptively sweet-looking, all grey hair and apple cheeks, for a book full of spells that started with necromancy and only got darker from there) said to be careful with the pentagram lines, so Hermione has measured them all out and she’s confident they will hold.

They do hold. But three figures take shape, not two, and she grabs Harry’s arm.

“Be ready,” she mutters. Ron is looking at them warily.

The third is a woman, long dark hair in a braid, leaning on who Hermione thinks must be Lancelot.

“Lady Guinevere?” she blurts. It can only be her.

“I am she,” the lady answers. “Where are we?”

“In England. There’s a war,” Hermione says. “We need help.”

Arthur rubs at his eyes momentarily at that. They’re younger than she expected.

“Who is the foe?” he says.

“Voldemort,” Harry says, low. “He killed my parents, and he’s killing, well. Everyone who stands against him.”

“We’re quite difficult to kill,” Lancelot says mildly.

“Until the end, anyway,” Arthur says, and Guinevere grabs his arm.

“Not this time,” she says, and Hermione feels the hair on her arms stand on end. That’s a prophecy if she ever heard one. “Not this time, my love, for you shall both come back to me, and we shall make a new life in this new England.”

 

3\. 

“He’s not dead.” Gwen’s eyes are wild, and she’s holding one of their readers in front of him, the one they use for news from official channels. 

“What do you mean?” Lance is about ten minutes from going to bed, after a night shift helping Gawaine steer their ship through a meteor shower. Excalibur flies beautifully, and while Arthur was always convinced she couldn’t be harmed, Lance has less faith. Lance always had less faith than Arthur. The first time Arthur invited him into bed with him and Gwen, Lance was so worried he would ruin things between them that he said no, even though there was nothing in the world he wanted more.

“I mean he’s not dead. Arthur. The Empire has him.” Lance has to sit down. It’s been three months since Arthur failed to return from his undercover mission on Chandrila, and he doesn’t think he’s breathed right since. He can’t do it now either, straining for breath so he coughs when he tries to talk.

“What—“ he starts, then swallows and starts over. “How do you know?” “They’re going to execute him as a traitor a month from now.”

“A month?” They both know what that means. Torture until he gives up anyone or anything about the Rebellion, and as much public display as possible of the last surviving member of the Ruling Council of Kamino. The Empire is predictable, in some respects at least. 

“A month,” Gwen says.

“Flag Skywalker, and see if she can send us some help,” he says. “We’re going to get him out.”

 

4\. 

Lancelot finds him when the battle is over. Gravely injured, left for dead. Lancelot was too far away when the wave of his own men hit the bulk of Arthur’s army where the king was to stop them; if there was anything he hadn’t wanted, it was for Arthur to die. The land cried out when he fell, and Lancelot can feel it still, the way the ground wants to part beneath them in grief, upheaval over the impending death of their chosen king.

“Arthur,” he whispers, mouth so parched with horror he can hardly get the word out, falling to his knees next to his king.

Arthur doesn’t open his eyes. Lancelot can see his chest rise and fall. So slowly, so faintly, but he can see it. Too slow, but he yet lives. His ribs are broken; if Lancelot is any kind of judge they’ve pierced his lung. The remnants of a dagger stick out of his side. Mordred, no doubt. 

He strokes the hair out of Arthur’s face.

Lancelot has done this before. That’s not a comforting thought. It nearly swallowed him up, last time, pulling and pulling at him until he thought he was giving life back to Sir Lionel only to lose his own. There is always a cost to doing something that no man should be able to do, and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to come out of it, let alone bring Arthur back. He thinks of Guinevere in the convent, how she’s no doubt been told her king is dead and that no one can find her lover. Knows that what he’s about to try might mean she never comes out of there.

Carefully, he takes off Arthur’s helmet, hands coming back to frame his face, and falls into the dark. 

It isn’t any easier this time. Arthur has a long way to go to come back up, and Lancelot feels like he’s calling into a void, pulling at a burden that ought not to be lifted. It’s heavier than any sword he ever lifted, more overpowering than the grail. But finally his voice snags on something, and he feels Arthur respond. 

“Come back,” Lancelot whispers. _Come back to me. To us._

Finally, Arthur opens his eyes. Lancelot breathes out, the field spinning under him.

“The land is welcoming you back,” he says, but truthfully he’s not sure whether it’s the land or his own brain, scrambled by his efforts.

“You’re here,” Arthur says. His voice is shredded to pieces, and Lancelot curves a gentle hand around his neck.

“Don’t talk,” he says softly. “Careful.”

“You brought me back,” Arthur says, stubborn as ever.

“I did,” Lancelot agrees. 

“For what?” Arthur said. For once, Arthur doesn’t sound bitter when talking to him. He sounds as though he’s asking honestly.

“Because I could not bear it if you died,” Lancelot says, equally honest.

Arthur doesn’t say anything at that, and Lancelot falls silent as well. The sun is setting in the sky, burnishing Arthur’s hair with gold, and Lancelot, well. There was never a time when he didn’t love his king. He strokes his cheek, because he can’t help it.

“Are you comfortable?” he says.

“Very,” Arthur says. “I used to lie like this with Gwennie, in the summer. My head in her lap. She’d bind me flower wreaths.”

“I lack those skills,” Lancelot says drily. “And I think we killed the flowers.”“Let’s not do that again,” Arthur says.

“Let’s not,” Lancelot agrees. There is silence between them once again, but it’s unexpectedly comfortable.

“What now?” Arthur says, after a long while.

Lancelot takes a breath. What now, indeed. “I thought we’d get Guinevere,” he says, “and then I thought, maybe. France.” France, from whence he came, the land he always wanted to show to them. There’s a remote castle where they could live, where Arthur could be relieved of his cares and heal from his injuries. Time enough for his miraculous return later. If England wants its king, she shall have to wait. Lance watched him deteriorate for years with Mordred’s manipulations until the love between them all lay shattered at their feet. It ends now, he decides.

“You’d bring me to France as your prisoner?” Arthur mostly sounds curious, and Lancelot aches to hear it. 

“No,” he says. “Not a prisoner.” He kisses him then, as the sun dips lower. It was always both of them, after all.


End file.
